


Grow As We Go

by amavyllis



Series: Sing to Me Instead [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale and Crowley Met Before The Fall (Good Omens), Aziraphale would never leave Crowley, Crowley Falls, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, They’re in love but it’s hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:46:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23904073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amavyllis/pseuds/amavyllis
Summary: After the Fall, Crowley wants nothing to do with Aziraphale. He is broken, bitter, changed forever.But Aziraphale loves Crowley, angel or not, and would never give up on him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Sing to Me Instead [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1583461
Comments: 2
Kudos: 55





	Grow As We Go

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by the song “Grow As We Go” by Ben Platt.

_“Oh, I’ve finally found you!” Aziraphale exclaims, approaching with quick, light steps._

_The other angel chuckles, his gaze focused on the ornamental basin before him. “Hello, Aziraphale.”_

_“Hello!” Aziraphale presses a kiss to his check and leans against him, before peering over his shoulder. Even after all this time, he continues to be fascinated by his work. “What are you doing?” he asks, despite knowing exactly what it is that he’s doing. Well, perhaps not exactly, as the particulars of how are still quite unclear to him. It’s why he remains so enraptured by the whole process. But he still likes hearing the answer anyway._

_“I’m forming a star system,” he replies, lifting his hand out of the basin to show Aziraphale. The swirling orb in his hand emits a blue light that shimmers and sparkles as it turns._

_“It’s beautiful,” says Aziraphale, wishing he could reach out and touch it._

_He smiles, pleased and proud by the compliment. “Here.” He moves the orb towards Aziraphale._

_Aziraphale holds up his hands, shaking his head as he says, “No, no, I couldn’t. Principalities aren’t supposed to mess with the jobs of archangels; we’re not equipped to handle them.”_

_He laughs. “Where did you hear something like that?” he says and gestures with the orb again. “Come, hold out your hand. I won’t let go of it if that makes you feel better.”_

_Hesitantly, Aziraphale stretches out his fingers towards the orb. The other angel guides his hand to cup the underside of it. Aziraphale is surprised by how warm it feels._

_“See? It’s not so bad.”_

_“No,” he breathes out, full of amazement and slight giddiness. He can’t believe how much twinkling brightness there is in such a little thing. He looks back up and sees the other angel’s lips curve into a fond smile._

_“You should name it.”_

_“Really?”_

_“Mm. Just let me put the finishing touches on it.”_

_He brings the orb back to the basin as Aziraphale lets go of it. He passes his hands over it, lithe fingers gently prodding and shaping with little flicks. There’s a sudden flash of light and then he extends it out to Aziraphale again. While it is no longer as liquid and undistinguished as before, it continues to pulsate and sustain its quality of gently flowing movement. The prominent color is still blue, although Aziraphale can detect a vast array of beautiful, unnamed shades beneath the bright glow._

_Aziraphale looks at it for a moment, admiring its beauty. “What do you think of Alpha Centauri?”_

_The other angel smiles, his eyes curving lovingly. He reaches over and takes Aziraphale’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “I think it’s lovely.”_

* * *

Before he is supposed to be anything else, Aziraphale is a soldier. He doesn’t want to be. He doesn’t even know how to be one. Nevertheless, he marches into battle, sword in hand, and prepares for the worst. Chaos rages on around him. He does not use his weapon; he turns and turns and does not fight. 

He is looking for someone.

An angel barrels into him and then falls, weakened and bloodied, to the ground. He moves away, his grip tightening on the sword he does not want to use. Swallowing the bile building up in his throat, he tries to move through the battling angels. 

Everywhere he turns there is anger and fear and distrust. 

He does not know how long the war has been raging. Forever, it seems. Long enough for him to know fear. 

He is looking for someone. 

_Where are you?_

Aziraphale jumps aside as two battling angels hurtle past him. He doesn’t understand why any of this is happening. God never explained it and he would not dare ask. But how could these angels turn on Her? And how could he be able to bring himself to help destroy them?

It’s then that he suddenly sees a flash of red among all the white. He tries to make his way through the crowd, but the fighting makes it difficult. Desperate to catch even the slightest glimpse of red, he follows it, hoping that he might be noticed.

Eventually he is. The red-haired angel turns, eyes widening slightly upon seeing him. Aziraphale can see that he is unharmed, and relief floods through him. The other angel’s face remains impassive, yet Aziraphale can see the slight tremble of his lip and the flinch behind his eyes.

Aziraphale is confused by the other’s expression. 

It’s pained.

_What are you doing?_

They look at one another for a moment longer and then he turns away from him. 

Aziraphale cries out his name, over and over, as the angels Fall.

* * *

It’s in the Garden that Aziraphale finds him again. He is no longer the same, but Aziraphale could find him anywhere. Apple in hand, he sits in the long grass; the black cloth he wears and the brightness of his crimson hair stand out among all the green.

“My dear, there you are,” Aziraphale says as he approaches him. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Where—”

“Why are you here, Aziraphale?” His words are monotonous, lost of all color, and spoken like a great heaving sigh. He doesn’t turn to face him—just twirls the apple in his hand.

Aziraphale stops, momentarily taken aback by the coldness of the reception, before he carries on, “I’m—I’m the Guardian of the Eastern Gate. They assigned me here just recently.”

“I ssssee,” he hisses, and it slithers into Aziraphale’s ear and sends a chill down his spine. “And why are you here? To gloat?”

“To gloat?” Aziraphale blinks and sits down beside him in the grass. “Of course not. I came to see you. I’ve been so worried about you; they wouldn’t tell us what happened to you all. Are you alright?”

To Aziraphale’s surprise, he throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, Aziraphale,” he drawls out in mockery, “do you even understand what happened? I’m not alright. I’m a _demon_. Haven’t you heard?”

“I know that,” he replies, indignant.

“No, you don’t.” He lowers his head and meets Aziraphale’s gaze.

Aziraphale gasps, his eyes widening. The pupils of his eyes have become thin slits, the color altered from a dark green to a deep amber. For a few moments, they just stare at each other, and it’s like Aziraphale is looking into his eyes for the very first time. Slowly, he reaches out his hand to touch the other’s temple and murmurs, “Your eyes, what—”

He flinches and jerks away from Aziraphale’s touch. He doesn’t say anything, just turns his gaze away. 

Aziraphale’s hand hangs in the air for a moment, uncertain, before returning to his side. “Where did you go?” he asks softly.

“Below,” he replies, vaguely, but it’s enough. “No where else to go.”

Aziraphale is quiet. “Do you hate me?”

He stills. The angel notices how his grip on the apple tightens.

“...Yes.”

Ah.

He doesn’t know what to say to that. He looks down and tries to push down the stab of guilt piercing his chest.

“You’re an angel,” the newly formed demon says after a moment. “I have to hate you.”

“But _I_ don’t hate you,” Aziraphale says and looks back at him again. “Why do you have to hate me? I don’t understand.”

“It’s just how things are.” He stands, and somehow, Aziraphale finds his back lonely. With slow, meandering steps, he begins to walk away. “We’re on opposite sides now,” he calls behind him. “Don’t bother approaching me anymore.”

Panic seizes Aziraphale and he chases after him, grabbing his hand and pulling him back around to face him. “Why are you saying that?” He knows his voice is quivering, but he doesn’t know how to stop it. “Why would you—why?”

“I’m not an angel anymore,” he says. “Demons aren’t nice. You’ll have to get used to it.” The words sound empty, tired. Gently—why gently?—he removes Aziraphale’s grip on his hand. “I’m not the same person anymore, Aziraphale.”

“But why do you have to go?” Aziraphale feels his heart tighten in his chest. “Tell me! I don’t care if you’re changing—I still want to be by your side!”

“You don’t know what you’re saying, Aziraphale,” he says, and his voice is shaky. “You don’t mean it.”

“Yes, I do! Yes, I _do_!” There are tears forming in Aziraphale’s eyes, and his hands are trembling so much that he can’t wipe them away. “Please, my dear. If you think you have to change, then change. But stay beside me, change with me. I’ll love you through it all, not despite of it but because of it, because I know you.”

His face looks stricken, but he doesn’t turn away from him. “You can’t love a demon,” he says in a whisper, and he is breaking, breaking, breaking. “You can’t. They told me you can’t.”

“They don’t know me and you.” He shakes his head slowly, tear-filled eyes looking fiercely back. “They don’t know our love.”

“What if _I_ don’t know our love anymore?” He says the words quietly, as if he himself is afraid that they’re real.

Aziraphale smiles, even as there’s a painful prick in his chest. He reaches up and cups his cheek, and inwardly he’s slightly surprised by how cold the touch feels. “Then we’ll learn it again together,” he says. “We’ll grow and change and love. We’ll take it slow. Together.”

The other only looks back at him, eyes wide. His lips part as if to speak but ultimately close. His eyes shift down to the ground.

He doesn’t know how to make him see. At a loss at what to do, he takes the demon’s hand in his and holds it tight. “Please, _please_ , my dear,” he says, voice choked and unsteady. “Don’t go. I don’t care what happens. I just want _you_.”

And there— _there_ —it’s there that Aziraphale finds him again, beneath the anger and the pain and the hardened, blistered skin that formed when the angel was cast out for eternity by the very sky that once loved him. It’s there, in his eyes—honest and kind and gentle _still_ , even though they’re no longer the same.

“Are you really sure?” he asks.

“More than anything.”

“Heaven won’t like it, Aziraphale. You might become like me.”

“I’m not afraid of anything if you’re beside me.” 

He looks at him for a moment longer, and then he falls to his knees and begins to weep. It’s not the words that have brought the tears, not really; he just has no other way of expressing himself. Heartache and relief and bitterness and love intermingle inside the heart of a self that seems to him to be a cold stranger. Emotions he has never known spill forth in these tears. He has never wept before; and though he will weep again, it will never be like this. 

Aziraphale does not know why he cries. Even so, he kneels down beside him and pulls him into his arms. He will hold him for as long as the other needs him. 

And Crowley, who has not yet been named so, hears Aziraphale’s heartbeat, hears his own, and remembers that even after everything, they are beating together.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
